The Doctor's Work
by Sensue
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is the biggest idiot on the planet. Only he, in the middle of a case, would nearly starve himself to death. Dedicated to Jomel10 on livejournal.


_Dedicated to Jomel10._

_**The Doctor's Work by Sensue**_

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><p>It had been a long day at work. The type of day that ends with staring at the clock, praying for it to speed up until it was time to call it a day. When it finally hit, Dr. John Watson ran out of the hospital so fast, nurses would claim that he'd caused a gust of wind.<p>

Hailing a cabbie, Watson sunk down in the worn backseat, leaning his head against the glass of the passenger side door. It was cool and helped calm the torrent of emotions he'd felt through the hellish day. He'd maintained his stoic façade while he was in the hospital, of course- as always, the impeccable professional.

The twenty minute drive to the flat was soothing - the driver felt no need to chit-chat and John did nothing to encourage anything but utter silence. The cab pulled up to 221B Baker Street, and looked expectantly at his fare. John pulled out his wallet, grimacing at the lack of cash before handing the man his credit card. At the current rate, John would need a third job in order to cover the rent.

He was already a month behind - Sherlock hadn't mentioned it. To the world's only consulting detective, money was never a consideration. Watson ran a hand over his face as he started making the slow tread up the stairs. There was no one to blame but himself. Sally had warned him, "He doesn't even get paid."

All of the investigation the two men did together, while was for the good of mankind-did nothing to help pay the bills. Occasionally, a client or two would feel the need to pay for their services, but for the most part, the people they helped were downtrodden.

John pulled out his key and opened the door to their flat. He took a step inside and took in a deep breath. Sherlock Holmes, apparently, was bored. The entire flat looked as if a whirlwind blasted through it. The doctor looked this way and that, not immediately spotting his friend in the chaos that was now their home.

"Sherlock!" Watson yelled at the top of his lungs, as he just dropped his medical bag by the front door. If he put it anywhere else, it was unlikely he'd ever find it again in the mess. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

A sound came from inside of Sherlock's laboratory, otherwise known as their kitchen. John stomped over, shouted "Sherlock!"

The man in question didn't seem to hear him, head literally inside one of the cupboards. John stepped up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. When Sherlock's head hit the top of the cabinet, John didn't feel the least bit sorry. He bit his lip to keep his composure. All he'd wanted to do was to have a cup'a tea and rest. Certainly, he never expected to be walking into a disaster area.

Sherlock swung around, facing his friend. "John! John, I can't find it!" Sherlock's face was sweaty, as if he'd run a marathon. His eyes were wide, looking around the kitchen before running past Watson into the sitting room to clutch at the skull, searching inside of it.

John stared at him in shock, blinking. "What the hell was the idiot doing?" He thought. Out loud, he asked, "Sherlock, what are you looking for?"

His friend put the skull back on the mantle, going for the end table and rummaging through the drawer. "My stash. I hid it to keep from using, but I don't need it -I don't… I just want to look at it."

That made the doctor straighten, his voice hard as stone. "Your stash?" John strode over to him and grabbed him by the shoulders in order to look him in the eyes. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

John felt the man shaking under his hands - completely agitated. Sherlock's eyes darted from side to side; they were dilated. Without answering, Sherlock pulled away and walked almost drunkenly back to the mantle and picked up the skull again and peered inside. "Where is it?" he was muttering repetitively, pulling at his hair.

When Sherlock couldn't find what he was looking for, he leaned over the mantle, head in hands and started crying. "I can't find it. Why can't I find it?"

John went over to try and comfort him, when as if a switch had been thrown, Sherlock stopped the tears suddenly, swinging around, glassy-eyed and panting. "John, I can't find it." His fingers were digging into his temples painfully. "You'll help me find it, won't you?"

"Sherlock," John spoke quietly, "Have you taken anything?" He gripped the agitated man tightly by the shoulders, not allowing him to pull away. He had to repeat himself twice before Sherlock shook his head 'no'.

John listened to him gasping for air and pulled Sherlock to sit in the lounger he usually kept for himself. John's voice was calm and confident, anger entirely dissipated by his concern for his friend. "Sherlock, sit for a bit." He all but ran for his bag and brought it over to Sherlock. He grabbed his stethoscope and slipped it on, "I'm going to have a listen; just relax."

Quickly, he slipped the bell under Sherlock's shirt, ignoring the gasp that indicated the metal was cold. As he'd expected, Sherlock was tachycardic; his breathing rapid. Dr. Watson slipped the earpieces from his ears and threw the stethoscope around his neck automatically. He took his friend's wrist and pressed to get a pulse. Same rapid rate as his heart, Watson noted, but Sherlock's hands were cold, clammy, and shaking.

Sherlock seemed out of it, unaware of the medical scrutiny. His sweaty face was pale, eyes unable to focus. Years of experience taught John to move his patient to a supine position, pulling the lever on the lounger that would raise Sherlock's legs and lower his torso. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"Jo'n," Sherlock breathed, "Wha' go' on?" The slurred speech came on suddenly, an indication that Sherlock was starting to lose consciousness. John gave him a couple of slaps on the cheek. "The roo' spin'in."

"Sherlock," John spoke loudly, "Were you injured?" Dr. Watson didn't wait for his answer before running his hands down Sherlock's torso, focusing on his abdomen. "Sherlock, wake up!" He took out his blood pressure cuff and went about taking a series of pressures, a measurement from each arm. Both sides read low within an acceptable percentage of the other. "Shit," Watson swore under his breath, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

Symptoms and their causes ran through the doctor's mind as he diagnosed Sherlock's condition. "Shit," Watson swore again as the root of the problem suddenly became aware to him. He went through his bag, pulled out a needle and pricked Sherlock's finger to draw a drop of blood. Bringing his finger up to the test strip, the glucose meter calculated the weakened man's blood sugar.

When John saw the reading, it was hard not to become enraged-to shake his friend and scream at him for being _so bloody stupid_! The _stupid arse _had nearly _starved _himself to death! He moved away from the chair, his hand palming his mobile. Dialing 9-9-9, his finger twitched at the 'call' button. He hesitated calling emergency services, Sherlock had the habit of alienating everyone around him. John imagined the doctors admitting Sherlock - they'd probably commit him, at the very least for suicide watch. They wouldn't understand the eccentricities Watson lived with, they'd see Sherlock the way Sally Donovan did.

"You should be thankful that I'm a doctor," Watson muttered at his unconscious friend. He went about inserting an IV. A liter of saline was hung off a coat rack he'd brought over from the hallway; John set a slow drip.

Heading towards the fridge, John pulled out the electrolyte drink he'd kept for his work-outs and carried a chair for him to sit. This would not be a quick procedure-not something Sherlock would bounce back from in an instant. Medically speaking, it would be dangerous to work quickly. Sherlock hadn't eaten in days-fluids and nutrients needed to be replaced gradually, any rapid intake of food would be considered toxic by his body. The sod was incredibly lucky if he didn't have a seizure.

He'd found a dropper tucked into a pocket of his bag; it wasn't often he issued an infant dose of medicine, preferring to work on adults versus pediatrics. Unwrapping it, he quickly put it to use, filling the dropper with the drink. Gently, John held Sherlock's face and squirted the dropper into his mouth, waiting for Sherlock to swallow before repeating the process. He stopped administering the fluid after ten minutes, testing the man's blood sugar again.

It was slightly higher, Sherlock's face starting to pink up. John continued with the electrolyte administration until the entire bottle was empty. The doctor took another set of vitals, pleased that his friend was improving. He kept on with the fluids until Sherlock started stirring. John held Sherlock's face, speaking softly to him.

"Sherlock, it's alright. Just open your eyes…come on, focus."

For a few minutes, John listened to Sherlock's breathing. It was quickening as Sherlock became more aware of his surroundings. "That's it, Sherlock. Wake up." As John spoke, he gently stoked his friend's cheek with his thumb in comfort.

Sherlock pulled away from his hands, uncomfortable with the unfamiliar touch. "John?"

John shifted his hold, a hand lightly resting on Sherlock's chest, while the other clasped his wrist. "Yeah, it's me. How are you feeling?"

"Tired. So tired, John. Jus' let me sleep. Everything's alright." Sherlock whispered.

"No, Sherlock. It's not. Do you have any idea what could've happened to you?" John calmly spoke, fighting the temptation to raise his voice. "You could've died."

Sherlock huffed, "Stop being so dramatic." The stubborn idiot, of course, got up out of the chair to prove that he was, as he claimed, 'alright', pulling out the carefully placed IV with a yank.

John turned his head, his face turning to a grimace as he wrinkled his nose. "Right."

He didn't have to wait long; it didn't even take Sherlock a couple of steps before he dropped to his knees, clutching his head. "Ohhh, Arg," Sherlock groaned. John listened to Sherlock's breathing and did nothing to help him get off the floor.

It was an exercise in patience, waiting Sherlock out. There was no point to helping a man who refused it. So he just watched Sherlock struggle to stand, each attempt only ending in failure - and perhaps another bruise or two.

"Are you just going to stand there and pout or are you going to help me, DOCTOR!" Sherlock snarled from the ground; of course, it was hard to hear with the man's face pressed against the floor.

"Why do you need help? I though everything was alright." John crossed his arms over his chest.

Harsh breathing answered him, "Sarcasm doesn't become you, John. Will you please help me?" Sherlock was shaking, his body quivering against the cold floor.

Watson muttered under his breath, "What do you think I've been doing all night?" John kneeled beside his friend and levered him up so they were face-to-face. He placed a hand against Sherlock's neck, taking another pulse. "How do you feel? Be honest."

"Dizzy, incredibly dizzy. It's hard to think- I need to think, John." Sherlock was grasping at his hair-the very picture of a man going insane.

"No, Sherlock," John grasped Sherlock's hands to pull them away, "What you need is a healthy diet with nutritious food on a regular basis. You need to rest at least six hours a night, preferably eight. Sherlock, what you need is to take to take care of yourself." With that John lifted him to his feet and almost carried him to the couch. Sherlock curled up in the fetal position and threw his arms over his head.

"I'm going to make you some chicken broth. It's simple enough that I don't think you'll have any problems with it. I'll be right back."

Ten minutes later, John brought back a tray of soup, a cup of water, and a first aid kit. "Sherlock, try and sit up." For a moment, John thought that he was going to be ignored, but slowly Sherlock uncurled and listened to his directions.

Sitting beside his patient, John slid the tray across his lap to Sherlock's. "Eat it slowly; you'll get sick if you don't."

"Alright," Sherlock agreed. His right hand trembled as he wielded the spoon; he was too proud to ask to be spoon-fed.

While Sherlock focused on getting the soup into his mouth, John bandaged Sherlock's left hand where he'd ripped out his IV. The surface had stopped bleeding, but the vessel had burst causing a large bruise to form under the skin. The doctor placed a cold compress on the site, trying to reduce the size of the damage. "I could've pulled this out for you… saved you a painfully bruise."

Sherlock smiled slightly at that. "Yeah, that would've been too easy."

"Do you remember what you were doing before you collapsed?" John questioned, his nervousness apparent as he tongued his cheek.

"It must've been something incredibly awkward… the way you're acting." Sherlock remarked, he was quiet for a while. "I don't remember."

"You were looking for drugs," John stated, "you tore this place apart looking for your stash."

Sherlock licked his lips, pausing with his spoon in the air. "Oh."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"What would you like me to say? I don't remember anything." Sherlock's voice was bleak-empty as the look in his eyes.

John turned his head away, cupping his chin. "Are you planning on using again?"

"No." A one word answer.

"How often does this happen to you? I can tell this isn't the first time you've collapsed from starvation." John turned back to look at his friend.

"Why do you need to know?" Sherlock argued defensively.

"Because I'm your doctor and your friend. How many times, Sherlock?"

There was an expression on Sherlock's face that John couldn't decipher, but Sherlock seemed to make some kind of decision.

"This is the tenth time that this has happened to me. Its been years since my last episode. It happened quite frequently in my teenage years… mostly due to experiments. I can usually go at least four days without food-I'm not quite sure what happened. I calculated my limitation." The last part was spoken as if he were talking to himself.

"Four days? Sherlock, are you serious? You can't keep doing this." John scolded him. "You do realize that you're suffering from tachycardia? I'm about ready to take you to a hospital to run an EKG."

Sherlock frowned at that, placing a hand against his chest as if he didn't notice his shortness of breath and pounding heart beat before John had mentioned it. "It's just a reaction from my fall. Adrenaline."

"No, Sherlock. I've been monitoring you for the last couple of hours. It's not just from your fall - your body is working twice as hard to pump blood through your body because it is lacking the energy and nutrients to sustain a normal heart rate."

"So, what do you recommend?"

"Bed rest, at least a week. A fluid diet for the next couple of days, followed by soft nutrient rich solids. Lots of Jell-O."

"A week? Really, John?" Sherlock argued, throwing down the spoon he just realized he was holding. "I can't stay in bed a week. I have cases."

"If there's a problem with my treatment plan, I'll call your brother and drop you off at the hospital." John pulled out the big guns. "Either you listen to me or you go to the hospital, your choice."

Sherlock leaned back against the couch, "Fine. I'm listening, Doctor."

John got up, "Finish your soup, I'll help you to your bed after."

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><p>John had called off of work the week to take care of his friend. Sherlock was as weak a kitten, but with constant supervision and medical care, he was on the mend.<p>

Mrs. Hudson visited frequently, bringing soups and casseroles with her. News of Sherlock's 'illness' traveled through the underground community and soon, their front door was piled with food John was surprised the homeless could afford to share.

Much to Dr. Watson's utter relief, Sherlock's heart rate - once he was fully rested and recovered- returned to a normal sinus rhythm. Sherlock, himself, seemed to have put the entire episode behind him -erasing it from his hard-drive.

John wasn't sure what to expect. Perhaps he'd been a fool thinking that the man would change after such a scare. Everything was back the way it was - including Sherlock's poor eating habits.

If it weren't for Mrs. Hudson's nagging, Sherlock would've spiraled back into a state of collapse. John made sure to keep a close eye on his friend.

The funny thing was that Sherlock didn't seem to appreciate it. If anything, he would get upset and say that he felt 'bullied' by them, so John backed off.

It wasn't until the next day he received a text that John finally relaxed his guard.

_I forgot to say thank you for saving my life, again. - SH._

_John smiled._


End file.
